


One More Troubled Soul

by kekinkawaii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Camping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24737815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: “Where do you think you’re going?”“I have no clue,” Dean said. “But hey, walk in one direction long enough and you're bound to get somewhere.”He heard Castiel snort behind him, but the footsteps that followed were steady and close on his heels.(In which Dean thinks some very untowards thoughts towards birds, Castiel is just trying to get through the night, and Lady Luck works in strange and fortunate ways.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 78
Collections: ProfoundBond Exchange: Quarantine & Chill





	One More Troubled Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmethystShard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmethystShard/gifts).



> The title is from the FOB song Alone Together.
> 
> This was written for the ProfoundBond exchange, and gifted to the lovely AmethystShard. This was my very first exchange ever, and I had so much fun writing this! I really hope you enjoy <33

There was a goddamn bird chirping outside the tent. Dean didn’t know if it was staying up late or waking up early, but it must’ve been three or four in the morning by now. Stupid bird.

To be honest, it probably wasn’t the bird that was keeping him from falling asleep, but he was perfectly happy to dump the blame on the overly-cheerful chirping that came every thirty seconds or so, so that right when he thought it had finally moved on or fell asleep or flew away to do whatever birds did, he’d be interrupted by another string of mighty chirrups.

It was a mix of that and the scratchy vinyl-like material of the sleeping bag on his shins, the way the breeze made the tent straps flutter and whistle in the wind, the gentle crackle of the dying embers in the fire pit a few feet away, and the muffled snores of Sam from the next tent—how Jess tolerated his frequent tendency to mimic a high-powered chainsaw while unconscious, Dean didn’t know. She must be a saint.

Dean sighed, feeling like he’d be able to watch his breath fog in the chilly air if not for the watery darkness in the tent. He knew this was a bad idea—who liked to sleep outside when there was a perfectly good bed inside? But Sam had pulled the puppy eyes and Dean had crumpled like a ball of aluminum foil. And now he was stuck for two more days of watching him feed Jess marshmallows on a stick.

The bird chirped again. Dean swore silently at it, then out loud.

He lay perfectly still, not moving a muscle, all the way until the next bright string of birdsong, and then he yanked the sleeping bag off of him and shimmied out, grimacing at the way the moist dew clung to his skin as he unzipped the entrance flap and crawled out of the tent.

He was greeted with the sharp scent of smoke. He ran a hand through his hair and felt goosebumps prickle up his bare arms in a sensation that was oddly pleasant.

Their campsite was more remote than the others, at the end of a long winding trail. Their closest neighbour’s tent was visible, but no movement could be seen from any direction. Off into the distance, Dean could see the faint yellowy glow of the washroom lights. He craned his neck up and was disappointed to see that the stars were dimmed and covered by the treetops.

He thought for a moment, then toed on his boots and began to walk in the opposite direction of the artificial light, further into the trees. There was a lake nearby, with a great big overview of a clear sky. He had stumbled across it while wandering off-trail that afternoon, and he was sure he could find it again.

His phone light was blinding when he turned it on, so he put it back into his pocket and resumed walking in the dark, eyes adjusted enough that he wouldn’t accidentally run into a tree and poke out his eye. Besides, it was a protected patch of land, and there were enough campers that bears weren’t a problem.

A left, another right. Follow the narrowing trail up over the hill. Back down. His footsteps crunched the gravel below him in a way that was uncomfortably loud in the night. He couldn’t hear the bird anymore, thank god.

One moment, Dean was canting his head, brow furrowed with the thought that, hey, his footsteps were _echoing_ —and growing faster—and then the full realization crystallized in the next second, that those weren’t his footsteps but someone else’s, and that they were coming straight towards him, head-on.

It hit him like a punch to the gut. Bears weren’t the only thing he needed to look out for in the woods.

When he recounted this story to friends and family, Dean would insist that he had calculated his odds and ends in the span of just a few seconds—his lack of firearms, the potential for _anything_ to be behind those footsteps and in these woods—and promptly decided on the most logical, most prudent state of action.

In reality, Dean allowed one second for himself to hear the footsteps grow quicker and louder, approaching him from the front, before, heart kicking up into a ricochet, he turned on his heel and ran.

He heard his follower unfaltering and close behind. He took a turn at random, hoping to throw them off. The skid of gravel hit his ankles. He heard their breaths mere paces behind and felt it as a phantom tingle on the back of his neck.

Dean went off-trail, breaking through an opening in the trees and stumbling into branches, arms up for protection. Cracks and snaps filled the air. Blindly, he continued to run.

He heard a soft grunt, a thud of heavy footsteps, and then something tackled him to the ground.

Panic taking over, Dean flailed wildly. The murderer/serial killer/psychopath snatched up Dean’s arms and pinned them to his torso before landing themselves on top of Dean in a solid drop that punched all the air out of him with an exhaled _oof._

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Dean muttered, and drew in a sharp breath to scream.

The other’s hand clamped down over his. Dean bit the heel of their palm, hard. He heard a hiss of pain as it retreated, but his triumph soon died out as the hand came down upon his mouth again, this time covered with the stuffy, mildew-flavoured material of a thick coat sleeve.

Dean’s heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his toes, pulsing in his eardrums.

The other bent down until they were inches from Dean's face, and through his frozen shock all he could make out was a menacing glint of narrowed eyes.

“What,” the man growled, “do you want from me?”

Dean was so confounded by this question that his eyes bugged out.

“Well?” the man demanded. He tightened his grip on Dean's wrist and shook him a little. “Money? Possessions? Hostage? Ransom?”

Dean tried to speak through the fabric against his mouth and managed a dim, murky grunt in response. The pressure lessened, and Dean managed to turn his head to the side and pant for a moment before attempting to speak again.

“What the _fuck,”_ Dean hissed.

The viciousness in the man's eyes lessened by a fraction, overridden with confusion. “Excuse me?”

“Dude!” Dean wheezed, trying to keep his voice down for some ridiculous reason. A part of him wanted to scream, but the other, more-logical side registered the confused glow in the other’s eyes as a sign of passive, non-murderous intentions. Maybe the insane bit still rang true, though. “You were the one who chased me down! I should be asking you those things!”

The man tilted his head like an inquisitive owl. “You were the one who was following me through the woods at night.”

“I didn't know I was following you!” Dean protested. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s fucking dark in here!”

“You…” Dean could almost see the gears turning in the man's head. The hands pinning Dean’s wrist loosened. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Dean said pointedly. “Now imagine you’re walking through the woods at night when someone starts _chasing you down.”_

“I see,” the man said stiffly. “My apologies. I mistook you for an attacker.”

“An attacker,” Dean repeated, suddenly dumbfounded. “Do you have no survival instincts? Someone’s following you in the middle of the night and your first reaction is to chase them down?”

“That method seems to bode well with you.” As if to emphasize his words, the man settled himself a little more firmly across Dean’s chest. (Which he was still sitting on, by the way. Dean was sure that it was going to get awkward sometime soon.)

“What if I had a weapon?” Dean goaded.

“Then I’d disarm you,” came the easy reply.

“What if I had a gun?”

“There’s a strict no firearm policy in these campgrounds. It scares off the birds.”

“What if I was batshit crazy and didn’t give a fuck about the birds?”

The man fixed Dean with a steely gaze. “It’s a good thing you're not, then,” he said dryly. “I can take care of myself just fine. I apologize once more for mistakenly coming after you.”

With that, the man swung himself off of Dean’s chest and stood up in one fluid motion, before reaching out a hand towards Dean.

His grip was hard, pulling Dean up with a surprising amount of strength. Dean remembered the way the man had pinned him down, hard enough to bruise. Inexplicably, a shiver wound its way down his spine. It was goddamn cold in these woods. 

“I’m Dean,” he said.

“Hello, Dean. I'm Castiel.”

Strange name. “Hey there, Cas,” Dean said absently, digging his phone out of his pocket. He thumbed it open, the light that beamed from the lens making him wince.

He shone it towards Castiel, who put up a hand to shield his eyes. His eyes were startlingly blue, Dean realized. He was barefooted, and seemed to be wearing pyjamas under a long, tan trenchcoat. He appeared perturbed and profoundly disgruntled.

As Castiel returned the scrutiny right back, his expression melted into something more serious, flickering with concern.

“You’re hurt,” he said.

Dean followed his gaze to his right arm, where there was a streak of blood, gleaming bright crimson in the light.

“Huh,” Dean said. It wasn’t even painful—adrenaline, he supposed. One did get rather sidetracked from minor injuries when running for their supposed life.

Dean used his free hand to run his index finger up the length of the scratch, wiping up the blood. 

Castiel let out an unimpressed sound.

“Here,” he said, and rummaged in his pocket. He ripped open a little packet, and the cloying scent of alcohol reached Dean’s nose.

Castiel stepped closer, his head tilting to the side as he grasped Dean’s arm in one hand, holding it steady as he dabbed at the cut. 

“You’ll get an infection,” he chastised lightly.

Dean’s arm stung at the contact, but he barely registered the sensation. Now that Castiel was in direct light and standing so close, Dean was beginning to notice things about him that he hadn't noticed earlier. Like the slightest hint of stubble that lined his jaw. Or the teasing, concentrated curl of tongue behind his lips.

And his eyes. Dean remembered one occasion at work where the owner of a blue Honda had insisted that it wasn’t just _blue,_ it was _cerulean._ He thought he finally understood where she had been coming from, now.

“There,” Castiel said, sounding satisfied. He gave Dean’s arm a final pat before stepping back.

Dean took several seconds to respond, finding the air a little shallower than usual.

“Thanks,” he managed, before shaking himself out of it. Castiel wasn’t interested in him. Hell, he probably wasn’t even interested in _men._ Besides, Dean barely knew him. Best to just get them both back on track so that they could return to their own respective tents.

Dean raised his phone once again, and this time spun himself in a circle, getting a good look at what his surroundings offered: that is to say, trees, trees, and more trees.

He huffed. “You’ve got any idea where we are?”

Castiel squinted into a random direction. “No.”

“Well, that’s helpful.”

Castiel bristled. “Not any less than you are.”

Dean bit his tongue. “Touche,” he muttered. “Alright, guess we’re stuck together.” He picked a direction at random and started to walk.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I have no clue,” Dean said. “But hey, walk in one direction long enough and you're bound to get somewhere.”

He heard Castiel snort behind him, but the footsteps that followed were steady and close on his heels.

They fell into ambient chatter a few minutes into the walk. It was something about the unerring silence of the woods, the impenetrable darkness five feet ahead, and the way the leaves rustled around them like they were whispering, but Dean found himself speaking just to hear his own voice. Castiel’s responses came as a comfort, the man’s gravelly words soothing in their roughness. 

Dean told Castiel about the way the wind whistled through the cracks of the tent and jarred him from sleep. Castiel told Dean about how he was camping alone, and went for a late-night walk in hopes of peace and quiet (and look how well that turned out).

Dean found himself telling Castiel about that one time he was called in for an oil change and found a dead rat in the fuel tank, and when he tried to fix a sink and found an honest-to-god roach inside of it. Castiel told Dean about how he watched two people in his Ethics class slowly fall in love over the course of a semester, and how he nearly dropped a paper he was marking into the lake when he went canoeing the day before.

Dean pointed out that goddamn bird when he heard it in the corners of his perception again. Castiel canted his head, waited for a moment until it went off again, and declared that it was a black-capped chickadee.

Midway through a rant about campers who leave their litter everywhere, Dean suddenly stopped and stared at the cluster of bushes in front of him, where the leaves were rustling, too quickly to be the wind, and a faint growling could be heard.

Castiel approached the bush, and emerged with a squirming black cat, eyes glowing lantern green in the dark. Dean would deny it to the end of his existence, but he cooed at her until she purred and rubbed against his jeans before dashing off and disappearing into the bushes once more.

It was shockingly pleasant. Nearly domestic, even, in a skirting, dangerous way that Dean wasn’t willing to dwell on for too long. Castiel had a wit that was sharp as a whip and desert dry, and Dean found his smiles coming easier and easier. As the night progressed, each of them offering precious pieces of themselves to the other, Castiel Novak solidified in Dean’s mind from a silhouette to a face, his features detailed and distinguished, fully-formed.

Helpless, Dean was drawn in.

He wanted to hear more about Castiel’s opinions on modern literature. He wanted to reach up and pick that stray leaf out of Castiel’s hair; find out if it was as soft as it looked. He wanted to point his phone directly at Castiel’s face, if only to see his lips when he spoke, the gleam in his eyes as he laughed. 

The longer they wandered, the more Dean made Castiel chuckle in that abrupt, affectionate way of his, the less Dean felt the urgency to find their way back. The more he wanted to keep being lost, if it meant elongating this fragile melody for just a bit longer.

When Dean pushed past another swarm of leaves and found himself abruptly stumbling into an overlay of gritty sand, washed pale-blue by the moonlight, he simply stopped walking and stared, surrounded with the sudden rise of murmuring water gently lapping against the shore.

“Why did you—oh.” Castiel’s voice came closer, stopping at his side.

Dean cast his eyes across the clearing and noticed the rickety structure of the overview tower just a few paces away. They were only a few minutes’ walk from the main path.

“Looks like we made it,” Castiel said.

“Yeah,” Dean said, his voice growing quieter now that they were out of the shelter of the trees.

Castiel began to walk towards, then into, the water. Dean followed, toeing off his boots and kicking them to the side, flinching at the icy water as it greedily licked at his ankles.

He stopped when Castiel did, and they stood in silence long enough for his feet to grow warm and his skin to grow accustomed to the chill.

“I was actually trying to get here,” Dean said. “When I was walking, I mean. I wanted to see the stars.”

“Oh. Are you a fan of astronomy?”

“Not really,” Dean said, and shrugged. “I just think they’re real pretty.”

“I suppose they are,” was Castiel’s noncommittal reply.

“Are you?” Dean asked. “Into astronomy.”

“Not particularly,” Castiel mused. “But the stars always seem to prompt thinking, which I often find illuminating. Each and every one of those specks is a planet, perhaps a whole galaxy. It makes one feel inconsequential. Existential. Do you think there’s life apart from us? Something more? Or are we all alone in this universe?”

Castiel’s head was craned towards the sky, and Dean followed his gaze to see the sprawl of stars. The brightness was unhindered this far from artificial light, breathtaking in their full glory.

“Depends,” Dean said. “Are you talking aliens? Or a greater power?”

“Both,” Castiel said. “And anything else. I once read a disambiguation on the concept of parallel universes. It was quite… existential.”

Dean made a speculative sound in his throat. “Yeah, well,” he said. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t bother me.”

“How can it not?” Curiosity, dappled in Castiel’s voice. “How can you just let it go so easily?”

Dean shrugged. “I’m right here,” he said. “That’s all that matters.” 

He felt the other’s eyes settle on him.

“Maybe there’s more,” Dean said, just letting the words fall at this point, the atmosphere of the night and the hazy fog of sleep-deprivation making his tongue loose and easy. “Maybe there are thousands of lives out there. Thousands of me. Maybe I got to be a firefighter somewhere. Maybe I got to graduate from college, become Head of Sales at some big smarmy company. An actor. A hunter. Whatever.” He laughed lightly. “Look at you, getting me all introspective and shit. Point is, I’m in this universe, and I’m happy with who I am.”

The resulting silence made him feel antsy, and he said, “Cas?”

“The Chaos of Stars,” Castiel said, “written by Kiersten White. Have you ever read that novel?”

“Can’t say I have,” Dean said. “Why?”

“Nothing,” Castiel said, with an unexpected, secret smile in his voice. “There was this one quote, is all.”

Dean waited. When Castiel didn’t continue, Dean gave him a quizzical glance. Castiel appeared to be lost in thought, his eyes fixated amongst the stars.

A moment later, Castiel turned to face Dean, and Dean’s breath caught. Whatever he had seen from him in the murk and shroud of trees, the artificial beam of a cellular flashlight, it didn’t hold a candle to the way the man looked in the moonlight. 

Dean felt a tug in his throat, a twitch in his gut, an inexorable draw towards the other. Like the tide coaxed to the moon, he took a single, subconscious step forwards. At the same time, Castiel did the same.

They met in the middle, mouths brushing with the faintest touch. Then again, with a growing confidence that bloomed into something sweet and heady.

Dean drew away with a gasp stuck in his throat, eyes wide and staring at Castiel, who looked just as stunned, pupils inky in ocean-blue irises.

 _“Cas,”_ slipped from Dean’s lips, and he was stricken with the familiarity of the name, just how easily it was shaped on his tongue, how intrinsically right it felt.

“Dean,” Castiel replied. And, again—the way it sounded, coming from him. It just fit.

They just fit.

Castiel twitched his nose, and then yawned.

Dean felt fondness surge up in his chest. “Tired?” he teased, and then immediately regretted it when he felt the same urge to yawn overtake him, too.

“You’re one to talk,” Castiel said. “You didn’t sleep all night, either.”

“Well, we definitely make a pair.”

Castiel smiled.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyway,” he said. “Wanna come back to my place? Uh, tent?” He winced.

Castiel lightly knocked his shoulder against Dean’s. “I’d love to,” he said, and Dean grinned and took Castiel’s hand in his, dragging him out of the water and into the sand.

Dean was going to shoot that fucking bird.

He cracked his eyes open, eyelids fluttering at the invasion of light. At least he wasn’t cold anymore.

As he slowly gained awareness of his surroundings, the reason became evident.

A nest of messy black hair tickled his nose with every breath. The rest of the figure was buried inside the sleeping bag and plastered alongside Dean in a long lithe line of sleepy, warm heat. Their legs were tangled hopelessly together, cold feet trapped between calves. One of Dean’s arms was draped over the other’s torso, clutching close to his chest, where a heartbeat pulsed languidly against his palm.

The recollections of the night returned to Dean in bits and pieces, twigs and stars. He nosed his way deeper into Castiel’s hair, smelling faint lemon and lakewater. The hazy morning light combined with the honeyed buzz of happiness made him feel heady and starkly unfiltered. 

He heard the other hum, low and rumbling. Dean stroked a hand down Castiel’s side and marvelled at how well they fit together.

“Morning,” he whispered.

“Mm,” Castiel said, his voice rougher than Dean remembered, throaty with sleep. “You, too.”

Castiel rolled onto his back, turning his head to face Dean. His eyes were even brighter in the sun.

Dean felt a twinge in his chest, that same inexplicable tug. He leaned in to kiss him, close-mouthed and chaste, before moving higher. He pressed his lips to the tip of Castiel’s nose, his eyebrows, his forehead; landing at the top of his head before finally withdrawing to sit up, unzipping the sleeping bag so that they could move.

“Where’s your campsite?” he asked, as he groped for his clothes that were strewn haphazardly onto the floor of the tent. Castiel had ditched his trenchcoat as well, and Dean picked it up now, tossing it towards the sleeping bag.

“I’m not sure where in the campgrounds this is,” Castiel said. “It was much too dark last night to see anything specific.”

Dean smirked, and Castiel rolled his eyes and threw a pillow at him before he could make a remark. Dean laughed and grabbed it, perfectly poised to chuck it back.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice came from the outside of the tent. “You awake?” _He_ sounded peppy and energized as all hell. Probably woke up at six in the morning to do yoga or something.

“Yeah,” Dean called out. “What’s up?”

“Jess and I are going for a swim at the lake,” Sam said. “You can meet us there, if you want.”

“Better not,” Dean replied. “Wouldn’t wanna interrupt anything.”

“Dean!”

Dean cackled. “Have fun, Sammy,” he said.

He heard Sam’s irritated huff and could practically see the expression he was pulling. “See you later,” Sam said pointedly, and then there was the telltale sound of footsteps walking away.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head, and looked back at Castiel, whose face had froze into something akin to shock.

“What?” Dean said, instantly worried. “What’s wrong?”

Castiel was clutching his coat to his chest. He had sat up, his hair a wild ruckus atop his head that only served to accentuate the expression on his face. His voice was faint. “Was that Sam Winchester?” he asked.

Dean blinked. “Yeah, he's my brother. You know him?”

Castiel looked at Dean with widening eyes. “You’re Dean _Winchester?”_

“Uh,” Dean said. “Would it be bad if I was?”

“Oh, my god,” Castiel said. 

“Cas, what?”

“Dean,” Castiel said, “I teach Ethics at Stanford. I’m Sam’s _professor.”_

Dean’s mind took a moment to fully boot up, and then he made a choking noise and started laughing so hard he fell over.

“This isn’t funny, Dean!” Castiel’s voice was frantic. “This isn’t—I don’t—are there school regulations about sleeping with a student’s _brother?”_

Dean could only laugh harder. When Castiel didn’t join in, he sobered up enough to grab Castiel’s shoulders, kneeling down to meet him at the same level. “Hey, Cas, c’mon. Look at me.”

When Castiel did, Dean leaned in and kissed him gently. “Even if there were rules, I’m not letting you go. Not ever.”

“We’ve only just met,” Castiel pointed out.

“Feels like longer,” Dean admitted. After navigating their way back to his campsite, they had talked all night and more, whispering in snatches of shared breath in the single sleeping bag.

“Who knew you were so cliche,” Castiel teased.

“Hey, you were the one who talked about stars and parallel universes,” Dean said.

Castiel rolled his eyes, but sobered quickly. “Seriously, Dean. Surely you can see the issues that would arise from this relationship, especially with your brother.”

“We’ll just have to keep it a secret, then,” Dean said easily. “You gotta say, though, it’s kind of funny.”

“I’m an Ethics professor,” Castiel said wryly. “Believe me, the irony is not lost.”

Dean grinned. “C’mon, then,” he said suddenly.

“What? Where?”

“Your campsite,” Dean said. “You said you still had a few papers to mark. We’re gonna get that done. And if Sam doesn’t have the highest mark in the class, I’ll find a way to convince you to change that.” He winked.

Castiel made an indignant noise. “Dean, this is exactly why this can’t happen!”

“I’m joking,” Dean soothed immediately. “Hey—seriously, don’t worry. I just wanna go back to your campsite so you can change into some proper clothes, and then I wanna take you out on a hike, okay? There’s this place off-road with a great view and barely any people.”

“I… alright.”

“And,” Dean added, “after all of this is over, I’m gonna take you out on a proper date. Sounds good?”

“Yes,” Castiel admitted, with a sigh. “Yes. Okay.”

“Awesome.” Dean unzipped the entrance to the tent, and was sharply reminded of the last time he had done just that. The way it had kickstarted the chain of events that had led to all of this.

After all that? His favourite bird might just be the black-capped chickadee.

With Castiel following him close behind, Dean turned his face to the sun and stepped out into the crisp, open air.

> _“And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.”_
> 
> ― Kiersten White, The Chaos of Stars


End file.
